


Heavier Than They Look

by jooliewrites



Series: Season 2 Coliver Codas [9]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Coda, Episode Related, Episode s02e09: What Did We Do?, Established Relationship, Gun Violence, Guns, M/M, Murder Night 2.0
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 17:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5257676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor strokes a fingertip down his middle finger and along his palm. He can still feel the ridges of the gun handle pressing on the meat of his palm and the cool metal of the barrel against his fingertips. </p><p>Should he be worried at how well that gun fit in his hand? How easily he’d carried the weight? Should he be concerned that he doesn’t fully remember how it came to be in his possession? </p><p>+</p><p>A Coliver 2x09 (aka Murder Night 2.0) Coda</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heavier Than They Look

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: I've rated this M for canon-typical discussions of violence and guns so please read with caution and avoid if need be. 
> 
> Originally posted on [tumblr.](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/post/133629869373/a-coliver-2x09-coda-authors-note-contains)

Guns are heavier than they look.

It’s not really something he should be surprised about, Connor considers as he stares at his palm. He’s heard it before from two-bit characters in poorly made action films and rookie cops in procedural dramas. A common enough maxim trotted out to give an otherwise useless, waste of a character depth and meaning.

Guns are heavier than they look.

The sentiment itself always struck Connor as particularly idiotic. Of course guns are heavier than they look. Guns _should_ be heavier than they look. The object itself, a twist of metal and machinery, should be weighty, solid in a hand. One should always be aware that they are holding a gun. It shouldn’t be something whose weight you get used to; like a phone carelessly tossed back-and-forth between hands as if it’s lighter than air.

But, beyond the physical, guns should be heavier than they look by their origin, their purpose, alone. Like any other weapon, they are forged to do harm. Whether the owner thinks of protection or aggression doesn’t matter to the gun; when the trigger is pulled it still does its job either way. Holding a gun in your hand _should_ be heavy. The heft of it should pull at your shoulder and strain your arm. The burden of it should center you in a moment of chaos, remind you that in your hand you are holding power and life and breath. Remind that, in that moment, you aren’t a god but the Devil himself able to summon a reckoning with the curl of a finger.

Connor strokes a fingertip down his middle finger and along his palm. He can still feel the ridges of the handle pressing on the meat of his palm and the cool metal of the barrel against his fingertips.

Should he be worried at how well that gun fit in his hand? How easily he’d carried the weight? Should he be concerned that he doesn’t fully remember how it came to be in his possession?

He remembers Annalise calling the police and her feeding them lies about being shot. Connor remembers the horror and disgust and terror he’d felt at listening to her, at realizing the chaos of the night wasn’t quite over yet.

Hadn’t it all be enough yet? Wasn’t it over by now?

Then, phone call over and done with, Annalise had turned and her eyes had found his. Through the mess of tears and sweat, her eyes had found Connor’s and in them he saw a woman unhinged. Staring into those dark depths, Connor realized that person wasn’t his law professor or his boss. She was no longer the women he’d been so hell-bent on impressing all those months ago.

Annalise Keating was gone and Connor didn’t recognize that woman looking back at him.

Then the stranger had offered up the gun and started to speak. At first, Connor’d been able to ignore her, the rantings of a panicked woman easily dismissed.

Then, she’d offered up the gun and started to speak about Oliver.

At Oliver’s name, Connor’s mind pulled up the last memory. Oliver in their bed that morning, wrapped up tight in sheets and covers, clinging to Connor as Connor tried to get out of bed.

“No,” Oliver’d protested mere hours ago as he snuck a leg around Connor’s hip. “Stay here. Stay with me.”

Connor’d chuckled as he tried to sit up. “I gotta go. Michaela said it was important.”

“It’s always important,” Oliver’d grumbled. He managed to pull Connor back down and tucked in close to Connor’s side. “Just stay for once.”

Connor remembers turning in Oliver’s hold so they were chest-to-chest and lifting a hand to Oliver’s cheek. “I would if I could,” Connor’d said and Oliver’d nodded. Then Connor’d whispered, “I always want to stay.”

At that shy admission, Oliver’d smiled so wide it was blinding. Even mere the memory of it burned brighter than anything else until it was all Connor could see.

And then, only hours later, Annalise had threatened him. Threatened that beautiful, wonderful, gift of man. She’d threatened the man who Connor’s world revolved around. Annalise threatened to lock away Connor’s sun.

“You don’t go near him!” Connor shouted and rushed at her, this stranger who looked a little like a professor Connor’d once respected.

Then the gun was in his hand but _how_ had he come to have it? He remembers it being offered but couldn’t remember accepting it, willingly, into his palm. Connor’d always thought going blind with rage was another overused metaphor but, apparently, that one’s true too.

Suddenly then the noise had been deafening, everyone shouting and clamoring at once, but the gun was calming - a steady, almost soothing weight in Connor’s hand - and he decided he was going to give her what she wanted, this person masquerading as Annalise.

Connor was going to shoot her and she was never going to say Oliver’s name again.

She kept shouting something about her leg and Laurel was saying something as well. Or maybe it was Wes saying something over her. Or maybe it was both of them. Or maybe it was neither.

Then Michaela, Connor’s very own fallen guardian angel, stepped in front of the barrel to plead for reason. Michaela begged him “No. No. Please. _Please_ ” through tears and weight of the weapon in Connor’s hand became too much. It bent and broke his wrist and he dropped it in horror.

What was he doing? What was she making them do? What was all this becoming?

“I hate you so much,” Connor spat at her feet before running. Fleeing the room and the violence and the gun.

The rest of the night was a blur. Connor remembers panicking with his back pressed flat against cool stone. He remembers running through the wood and clawing at the ground with his fingernails. Riding in the back of a cop cruiser. Nate lecturing them all on what to do next.

And now he is here, back in the safety and home of 303, staring at his palm in the moonlight.

Guns are heavier than they look.

Oliver mumbles in sleep and Connor’s head snaps up at the noise. Even unconscious, Oliver is once again pulling Connor out of the rabbit hole.

Connor walks softly over to where Oliver’s asleep on the couch. The TV is frozen on the Netflix screen prompting Oliver to verify that he is in fact still watching _Parks and Recreation_ but Oliver can’t answer at the moment.

He has his phone is clutched in a hand and Connor suspects Oliver had been trying to stay up; waiting to hear from Connor about where he was and watching TV to distract his mind from the worry and panic. Connor’s own phone is dead, a useless paperweight in his pocket, but he’s got a feeling he’s going to have quite a few missed texts and phone calls waiting for him when he powers it back up.

Looking down at Oliver sleeping restlessly, Connor thinks he should shower before touching him. Change his clothes. Wash his hair. Destroy the evidence and all that. Connor knows he shouldn’t reach out when he’s unclean like this but then he feels the ghost of the gun in his hand and wonders if he’ll ever be clean again.

 _They won’t hurt you_ , Connor vows. He crouches down to pull the blanket up over Oliver’s shoulder and brushes a hand over Oliver’s hair. _I will protect you from her. I will protect you from all of them. They won’t touch you._

At the hand brushing his hair back, Oliver stirs. He slowly opens one eye and then the other, a fleeting smile crossing his lips before he bolts upright. “Connor!”

“Hi, Ollie,” Connor whispers.

“Connor. Where-?” Seeing the haunted look in Connor’s eyes, Oliver shifts his tone halfway through, trying to make it sound more like a request rather than a demand. “Where have you been?”

When Connor starts to merely shake his head, Oliver throws off the blanket and bolts off the couch. “No. No more of that shady shit. You are telling me where you were.” As he hears himself, Oliver knows pushing too hard like this is the wrong move, one look at Connor tells him it’s the wrong move, but he’s too wound up after a night of frantic worry to change gears now. “You went off the radar hours ago. Stopped answering me. Stopped texting every five seconds. You were doing something and I want to know what it was.”

“My phone died,” Connor offers. The excuse is weak and lame but Connor can’t muster up the energy to do any better.

“Well, who were you with? Michaela? Wes? You could have borrowed theirs.” Oliver crosses his arms over his chest and waits for Connor to say something, anything.

“I was with those guys. We were…” Connor starts and then lets it trail off. He hasn’t thought of an excuse and nothing comes to him. His mind is just a swirl of feelings and impressions. The scent of blood in his nose. The dirt under his fingernails. The tear tracks dried on his cheeks. It’s too crowded in his head to come up with a lie to sell Oliver.

“You were…what?” Oliver prompts. He tries to be gentler with his request this time. He’s trying to keep his worry and panic a bay but Connor’s acting so strange. He looks so shattered. What the hell happened? “What were you doing, Connor. And tell me the truth,” Oliver says. “I deserve the truth.”

“You’re right.” Connor looks up; the thought breaking over him like a dawn. “You do deserve the truth.”

With that Connor takes off his jacket and tosses it over a chair. The cotton of one of his sleeves feels rough, possibly stiff with dried blood, but Connor doesn’t move to cover it. He’s not hiding any of this anymore.

“Maybe you should sit,” Connor tells Oliver as he himself takes a seat on the couch.

“Okay,” Oliver says cautiously, taking a seat next to Connor. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to tell you the truth.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com)


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